


Debut of the Duchess

by thereinafter (isyche)



Category: Swordspoint Series - Ellen Kushner
Genre: Developing Friendships, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Heroism, Kidnapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-21 07:51:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17039759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isyche/pseuds/thereinafter
Summary: When Katherine enters Society as Duchess Tremontaine, Artemisia proves herself a reliable co-conspirator in both party planning and daring rescue, and at long last kisses her Tyrian.





	Debut of the Duchess

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saiditallbefore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saiditallbefore/gifts).



On that long night when they told me they were going away, my uncle who was no longer duke and my master who loved him, and showed me the documents all signed and sealed, I admit, my first thought was not of Artemisia. I wasn’t prepared for St Vier to leave me, or for the duke to, even. I was even less prepared to be Tremontaine.

But when they told me why, that Ferris was dead, I couldn’t help thinking of her. She deserved to know from my uncle himself, but I could do the next best thing.

After they had gone, after I had dealt with his Court of Honor summons, I paced my room, dried my tears, and waited for the sun to rise so I could call on her.

* * *

Artemisia was still in the breakfast-room when the footman brought in a card on his tray and had a whispered exchange with her mother. “Here? Now?” she heard her mother say, and, with a sigh, “We can’t very well refuse.”

He bowed, then came around the table to present the card to her. “The Duchess Tremontaine, to see you, my lady.”

Artemisia gasped. They’d all heard the duke had fled; everyone who was anyone was talking that morning—but a personal call for her!

She patted at her clothes and hair. She remembered Katherine Talbert after the duel, standing in the courtyard with her sword, alone, and how her family rushed her away before she could even thank her. And how she hadn’t written. She felt her cheeks warm.

“I’ll show her in,” said the footman, leaving the room. Artemisia turned the card in her fingers. Gilt-edged, engraved with only the arms of the House, the height of fashion.

Katherine seemed to sweep into the room, despite her stature and odd swordsman’s attire. Her coat and breeches were of deep Tremontaine green velvet, but the sword at her hip was the same one she’d worn that day. “Lady Fitz-Levi, good morning,” she said. “I see you got my card this time.”

Artemisia’s mother curtsied just enough to be polite. “I understand you wish to see my daughter. Your Grace.”

“Yes,” said Katherine, turning to Artemisia. She had a hectic air, as though she hadn’t slept. “I’m sorry I haven’t … can we talk? Would the garden be all right? It’s lovely out.”

Artemisia jumped up. “Of course, Your Grace.”

Wrinkling her nose, Katherine looked more like the girl who’d shown up on their doorstep last year. “Come on, then.”

Mama did not protest. Artemisia supposed she’d given up on her stubborn, ruined daughter. She had been more interested in Robert lately. Or maybe, now that Lucius had quit the field, she hoped for any match at all.

Artemisia felt her blush return as she led Katherine out to the garden. What an outlandish thought.

The bench under the quince-tree was both picturesque and private. She took one side of it, tucking her skirts under her, still nervous. Katherine did not sit, but paced around the tree.

“Artemisia,” she said then, and swallowed, and drew herself up in front of her. “My lady Stella. This should stay between us, but I wanted to be the one to tell you that your enemy and mine, Lord Ferris, is dead.”

Artemisia’s heart jumped painfully. “Did you—”

“No,” Katherine interrupted. “I wanted that too, but it doesn’t matter.” Her face was set with determination. “He’ll never hurt you again. Or any girl.”

She was safe forever. She’d never have to see his loathsome face or hear his voice again. The wave of relief brought tears, stinging her eyes, and a second wave of overwhelming gratitude made her reach to embrace Katherine. Her Fabian, or was she Tyrian? Her true friend.

Katherine’s velvet shoulder was soft, just like it had been the night of the horrible ball. She patted Artemisia’s back in the same comforting way, and she smelled of flowery soap.

“I owe you my honor and my life.” Artemisia sniffled. “No one else—not even my _mother_ —”

Katherine felt around her pockets one-handed and passed her another handkerchief. “What’s the line? ‘Though your enemies sought your destruction, I have made them my own, and made them pay the price.’ As much as I could, anyway.”

Artemisia smiled, sniffed again, and blew her nose into the handkerchief resoundingly.

“Did you ever get to see the play?”

She blew her nose once more, and explained how she’d seen the beginning of it, until half the crowd began actually _booing_ the Black Rose, and the other half throwing flowers, and then Lucius had made them leave the theatre, _so_ unfair.

Katherine was suitably appalled. “No! But the ending was so good. She and Mistress Fine were … beyond words. I cried buckets.” She pulled away. “Ferris shouldn’t get to spoil that for you too. Here, let me—”

She struck a pose and proceeded to act out the final scenes of _The Swordsman Whose Name Was Not Death_ , playing all the characters, pausing often for explanations and editorializing comments, until Artemisia was laughing instead of crying.

After the last scene, she sat up on the ground and said, “Obviously, I’m no actress.”

“I don’t know.” Artemisia reached out to help her up. “I almost feel like I was there.”

“Well, the next time a real company performs it, we should go. Maybe I can even order it, now I’m Tremontaine.” Katherine took her hand and climbed to her feet.

She glanced at the sky, still holding Artemisia’s hand. “Oh, damn it all. I promised not to take long. The duke’s secretary will scold me if I don’t get back.” She smiled, then theatrically bent to kiss her fingers. “Stella, this is not good-bye.”

At the touch of her lips, Artemisia couldn’t help giggling, but at the same time, her hand felt warm and tingly, not at all unpleasant.

“Come call at the Hill if you can,” Katherine called back as she hurried down to the street, giving the house a wide berth.

Artemisia sat in the shade of the quince blossoms, clasping her hand to herself, feeling wrung out with emotion. Soon she would have to go down and explain this to her mother, and then spend the afternoon tatting more odious lace, but not yet. She could still sense the light imprint of Katherine’s kiss, and her head was dizzy with freedom.

She didn’t see Katherine—or anyone except her parents and Robert—for another fortnight, but when a formal invitation to Tremontaine House arrived, she received grudging permission to go.

“It’s not as though it’s the Mad Duke,” her father said over her mother’s arguments. “And even he graced our card parties, need I remind you? The duchess is just a girl, and not yet out. It will do Mia good, and maybe the rest of us as well, down the road.”

So Artemisia was allowed to put on her new favorite visiting dress, periwinkle silk with white ribbons, and take the carriage up to the house on the Hill, where she’d only been once before. Exhilaration and nerves battled inside her as she mounted the steps.

Instead of the liveried footmen she expected, a boy met her at the door. “Lady Artemisia?” he said. “Lady Katherine knew you were coming, but I have an idea she got carried away with her sword practice. Follow me.”

“Thank you,” Artemisia said as the boy led her inside. He was about her age, with a nice face, very well dressed for a servant, not enough for a lord. “Mr. —”

“Marcus,” he said. She didn’t recall Katherine mentioning him.

She followed him up the grand stairway, which was just as striking as it had been the night she talked Robert into bringing her, through a series of twisty passages, past dozens of beautiful empty rooms, until she thought they must be at the very back of the house. Then he said, “Oh, yes,” and opened a pair of double doors painted with a woodland scene.

Sunshine poured out from a long high-ceilinged hall. Quick steps echoed rhythmically as the Duchess Tremontaine, eyes squeezed shut, muttering to herself, slashed and parried and lunged after an imaginary opponent up and down the polished floor. Her curly hair was slipping out of its ribbon, her face sweaty and screwed up in concentration, her shirt damp down the back.

The duel with Lord Ferris’s swordsman had been over so quickly. He must have been awful, Artemisia thought, to not even require the effort of her practice. Ferris had never taken either of them seriously at all.

She felt a glow of justified pride in her friend, watching her pincushion her invisible enemy. The windowsills looked like comfortable places to tuck oneself. Could she just wait there until Katherine finished? It was rather fascinating, all that furious precision and unladylike movement. Like that actress in the play, only real, because she was so dreadful at acting.

“Kate!” Marcus called out.

Katherine stopped, breathing hard, and opened her eyes. “What—oh no, Artemisia! I completely lost track of time.” She wiped her forehead on her sword-hand sleeve, looking sheepish and red-faced. “I’m sorry.”

"Oh," Artemisia said, "I'm—it's all right." Maybe she wouldn’t care for an audience.

“I don’t remember how to think when I’m fighting sometimes. It’s silly.” She turned toward the sword rack on the wall. “Just let me change, and I’ll meet you out there like a duchess in ten minutes, and you can forget you saw all this.”

Artemisia almost apologized again, but Marcus interrupted her train of thought by taking her arm. "This way, my lady. There’s chocolate. Katie never misses that."

In the cozy chamber where he led her next, the table was already laid: chocolate, bitter and hot and excellent, and light frosted biscuits and finger sandwiches. Thankfully, the eccentricities of Tremontaine House didn't extend to the kitchen. And Marcus proved a good conversationalist, drawing her out and diverting her with funny observations of people in Society. Artemisia formed the impression that he'd been some sort of assistant to the duke, despite his youth.

She'd finished her first cup of chocolate and Marcus had called for another pot of cream to mix it when Katherine arrived, hair damp around the edges, pink-cheeked, trailing the skirts of a frilly blue-green overdress.

"Sorry again," she said. "And thanks, Marcus. Is there more chocolate?"

Marcus pushed the pot toward her. "I'll get out of the way now," he said, and added to Artemisia, "Nice talking to you, my lady."

Katherine watched him leave with a frown, then shrugged and turned in her chair. "I'm glad they let you come. I wasn't sure."

"Me too." Artemisia nibbled on a biscuit. Sitting with her like she might on an ordinary day with Lydia suddenly felt strange. All those letters pouring forth her soul, all the dark hours when thinking of her defender sustained her, and now their enemy was vanquished and she didn't know what to say.

When she opened her mouth, what came out was “Why did you have your eyes closed, before?”

Katherine became very focused on stirring her chocolate. “Um.”

“Oh, that was horribly rude of me, wasn’t it, when you said to forget it—”

“Because of my teacher. St Vier. He’s blind. Maybe I can’t be as good, but I can try.”

“But you don’t have to be a swordsman anymore, do you? You’re Tremontaine.”

“I don’t think I could give it up.” Katherine sipped slowly. “Not now. I hated it so much at first, but now it’s part of what I am, too.” She laughed. “That sounds so dramatic, but it’s just … an ordinary fact, like being short or loving chocolate. And I don’t want to, either. I like it. The Court of Honor can choke on me if it pleases.”

“It should.” Artemisia felt very sure Katherine would stand up to them all if she had to. And perhaps she could muster the courage, too. “You looked very fierce,” she added.

“I was fighting Mangrove in my head.”

Artemisia giggled and raised her cup. “Bravo, then.” Katherine clinked hers against it, and they traded smiles, and she felt a bit easier.

After a pause and another biscuit, Katherine said, “My mother is terrified I’ll end up as odd as the duke.”

“Do you think you will?”

She looked down. “Well, it might not be so bad, I’ve discovered. I guess he got what he wanted, bringing me here.” She fidgeted with her skirts, letting the silence stretch out, then glanced back at Artemisia. “Speaking of my uncle, though, he never bothered teaching me most of the duchess business. Marcus knows more than I do, but he’s from Riverside. I wanted to ask your advice on something—”

“Of course!” Artemisia jumped in to assure her. “I can never, ever repay you, but I would do anything for my dearest friend.”

“Apparently I should throw a party soon, to give Society a look at me. I have no idea what they expect. Could you help me plan it, as my friend? If your family lets you come back.”

“Yes!” Artemisia’s heart skipped a beat with elation. Her own misfortune might be too recent for hosting parties, but she could help Katherine, she was certain. And at Tremontaine House! She stopped herself from bouncing in her chair. Casting her mind back over her season of balls and galas and soirees, making the effort to blot out the foul and irrelevant presence of Lord Ferris, she considered the current popular enthusiasms.

“Oh, good. I was completely lost if you said no.” Katherine gave a relieved grin, and she felt another rush of pride for her. The new duchess deserved a splendid entry into Society, however she could manage it. Or however they could, she amended, for it would surely mean more visits, and closer companionship than letters.

Artemisia picked up her chocolate cup, curving both hands around the porcelain. As she drank, she surveyed the room: the molding around the ceiling carved with curious details, the framed portraits darkened with age, the wall hangings too genteel to clash with any visitor’s attire. Katherine stood out in that blue-green silk, setting off the gold in her hair and the rose in her skin. “I meant to say that your dress is lovely.”

"Do you like it? I went overboard and ordered a half-dozen the moment I could, but they don’t quite feel the same now. Not enough movement.” She stretched, demonstrating, and leaned on the table. “Yours is to die for, though. Who do you go to? If it’s not rude to ask."

Artemisia might have been at a loss earlier, but parties and fashion put her firmly on her own ground. She was eager to share her knowledge of city modistes and dress shops, which Katherine soaked up attentively, and after that the gossip, just as if she were any friend.

More chocolate was brought and mixed, and the afternoon spread out in pleasant warmth, like the red sunset over the Hill when Katherine walked her out.

On the way home, rolling back toward the dismal prospect of her father’s questions and her mother’s frowns and her tatting, she wished she could just live at Tremontaine House instead.

* * *

I didn’t know if I should walk Artemisia to her carriage or not, but I wanted to. When I handed her up, she was easier to lift than I thought, and she said good-bye without bursting into tears once, so at least there was that.

I was still mortified that I’d forgotten about her arrival, and then she’d seen me sweating like a pig and talking to myself. She didn’t seem offended, but she wouldn’t in front of me, would she? Or worse, what if she felt like she couldn’t be in front of the duchess? What if she’d only said yes out of obligation? The fact that her parents delivered her to me this way after intercepting my letters and snubbing me for so long was my first real taste of the Tremontaine title’s power.

I waved, and as soon as the carriage was out of sight, I ran to the library to collapse in an oversized chair and moan at Marcus.

“I can’t remember I have one guest,” I said, burying my face in the leather upholstery. “How will I ever do this?”

“You were fine.”

“I’m a disaster. She knows so many things I should.”

“If worse comes to worst, you can always imitate the duke,” Marcus said, unsympathetically. “But, Katie, she likes you. A lot. You won’t need to.”

“I hope you’re right,” I said. “I don’t want to be stuck relying on your fashion sense.”

At which point he threw a cushion at me, I retaliated, and the conversation was over for the moment.

That night, when I went up to bed (in my old room; I hadn’t even thought about taking the duke’s then), I burned through two and a half candles writing an over-composed letter to Artemisia.

I wanted to tell her I didn’t mean to pressure her about anything, ever, and she shouldn’t care a fig for my new status, but I hoped we could be real friends, not just in fancy. I tried writing it about thirty ways, then threw up my hands and picked the least flowery, finished with another invitation hedged with caveats, and had it sent by the earliest post the next day.

I didn’t show Marcus the scented purple response I received in the evening, but it eased my mind considerably.

With that on my dressing table, I even slept well for the first time since the duke left.

The following weeks gradually became a whirl of party planning. Artemisia told me her father was now very keen to cultivate the Fitz-Levis’ connection with me, despite her mother’s disapproval, and so she was free to call at the house or go out in my carriage as much as she pleased. And she did seem excited to see me, and I was excited to have another real best friend; so it happened that we saw a great deal of each other.

Along with Marcus and the duke’s secretary Arthur Ghent, Artemisia helped me assemble a long guest list of unfamiliar names. I insisted on inviting Lydia Lindley and her other friends, hoping they might become mine as well.

We visited her favorite dressmakers and milliners and shoemakers, and made endless lists of decorations for my steward to order and entertainers to hire. I confided in her about how I had imagined grand balls in the city before I arrived, and she added her own visions, and together we reached absurd heights of silliness that had to be tempered with reality.

Artemisia was at the house so often that she developed a habit of staying and talking to me while I practiced the sword, which I stopped minding fairly soon. It saved time, after all, and I secretly enjoyed impressing her. Sometimes she even clapped for me when I skewered Fifi the dummy well enough.

Neither of us brought up the possibility that Society would turn its collective back on the Mad Duke’s wild niece, though it hovered in my mind. But I suppose I’d also learned from him not to care; I would have my friends and myself to rely on, not to mention his fortune, no matter what they did. I could defend myself, and anyone else who needed it.

Still, when the appointed day of the ball was upon us at last, I can’t say I felt truly ready.

Artemisia had declared that blues and greens suited my coloring, so I wore an aquamarine and silver necklace she’d exclaimed over in the shop, and my gown matched the gemstones, in a figured silk with ivory lace. Her maid Dorrie agreed to come dress my hair, as it wasn’t Betty’s forte. When she was done with me, I sat looking in the mirror and felt transformed—almost as regal as the other duchess, my great-grandmother, in her portrait.

“Oh, Katie,” said Artemisia—she’d picked up Marcus’s habit of nicknaming me—“it’s perfect!”

She, on the other hand, had been pretty all through the dressing process. When she appeared over my shoulder then, in her gauzy pale gown with white violets and pearls in her hair, I was a little bit tongue-tied.

I got to my feet and turned, allowing for the extra weight of the skirts. My swords were in the chest by my bed; I wondered if I had time to hide one in the ballroom just in case. Probably, if I challenged someone, he would give me time to fetch it.

Artemisia beamed up at me and bounced on her toes. “This is all just as I planned, dear. You’ll be _so_ splendid.”

Before the ball was set to begin, I fulfilled my old dream of gliding down the Tremontaine House stairs in that dress. It felt, I will not lie, magnificent; at the bottom, for a moment I was prepared to stand up to anyone without a sword.

Master Osborne the steward had outdone himself with the house. Everything was turned out impeccably, refreshed, with its best face on. When guests began to arrive, Arthur Ghent hovered unobtrusively near me, waiting to advise.

The Fitz-Levis and the Godwins were first to roll up in their carriages. When the footmen showed them in, Artemisia’s family entered with visible curiosity on their faces. Her father praised the house and said it had been too long since he had the pleasure; her mother was still chilly. Lord and Lady Godwin were very gracious, and didn’t mention the scene I’d made at their musicale. I decided I liked them. Robert Fitz-Levi awkwardly asked me for the privilege of a dance later, as if coached, and I didn’t see a way to get out of it, so I accepted.

They all drew Artemisia away with them, and I missed her instantly, but then I was occupied with other people being shown in and trying to remember names for quite a while. Older noblemen and their richly dressed wives or mistresses greeted me and sized me up, most seeming to dismiss me as a political threat and heading for the wine and food. Girls my age took my measure in a different way, like Lydia Lindley, who was friendly but guarded when we spoke.

After the musicians struck up, young noblemen asked me to dance, which would have thrilled me a year ago. But now I knew better: they were largely very dull, and their only conversation was unconvincing praise of my beauty or explaining things to me. I’d have preferred questions about my duels or my uncle’s scandals to nodding while a lord discussed the weather at his country house or the points of his new team of horses. Arthur advised me to keep my head about me, which was sensible, but I enjoyed the dancing more after I finished a glass of wine.

When I glimpsed Artemisia over my partners’ shoulders, she was among the small knots of wallflowers and matrons, or once dancing with her brother and then with Lord Godwin. So much of my attention was spent on remembering the steps that I lost her each time I spied her. The duke had never engaged a dancing master; I was lucky that my other skills transferred and I was quick on my feet.

I was taking my own turn with Robert Fitz-Levi in a half-time gavotte when I saw her white figure by one of the terrace windows, alone, with a downcast expression. She had assured me she'd be all right and enjoy herself, but maybe she was playing self-sacrificing Stella again. I wouldn't let her.

"Lord Robert," I said, "thanks for the dance, but forgive me, I must go." I dropped his hand at the next rest in the music, before he could say anything. He seemed more relieved than bothered as I hurried off the floor.

Artemisia brightened when I approached. "I hope he didn’t step on your toes. You’re doing so well! I'm sure you've conquered all their hearts, dearest."

"I don't know about that. I should have practiced some of these steps more. And I didn't mean to abandon you all night."

She waved a hand in an airy, blasé gesture. "Oh, don’t fret about me, it's always the nature of these things. Which steps?"

"That quick turn and reverse in the canario. It's so close to something Master Drake taught me that it keeps throwing me off. And the spin under the arm in the allemande." I mimed something close to it.

"This one?" She did it more gracefully, turning around an invisible partner, sleek head under her own arm.

I nodded.

Artemisia glanced around, then nodded to the door of the designated ladies' retiring room. "No one's in there.” She leaned toward me with a conspiratorial smile that reminded me of our first meeting. “I could practice with you, very quickly.”

I was eager to slip away from the noblemen for a while, and no one seemed to be looking for me right then, so I tiptoed after her behind some well-placed floral arrangements and into the room.

It was more dimly lit than the ballroom, but with helpful mirrors and sewing boxes to mend torn flounces or replace buttons. Stray ribbons and flowers littered the carpets, and the side table held trays of light refreshments, surrounded by abandoned glasses and plates. I frowned at the mess.

“Let’s just pretend I’m taller,” said Artemisia, looking up at me. She lowered her voice like a man’s and held her hands out. “Might I have the pleasure, Your Grace?”

I took them, smothering a laugh. She counted out beats and led me through the first tricky sequence, our skirts colliding and brushing in the center of the floor, first slow and then faster. I kicked over a half-full glass that fortunately held something clear. “Oh, _damn_ ,” I said, and she giggled through the next turn, steering me away from other obstacles.

When I had the rhythm of it, Artemisia shifted into the allemande, and I ducked under her arm and let her correct my grip until my body remembered that too. The music outside swelled loud enough to hear, and instead of letting go we grinned at each other and kept twirling around the carpet, finishing the whole dance, laughing and out of breath.

“That was fun,” I said. “You’re much better at it than Robert.”

“Oh, he’s hopeless.” She was sparkling more than I’d seen her do all evening.

I opened the side door to the terrace. “Come on, let’s get some air before someone else comes in.”

Artemisia picked up a decanter from the table with a questioning look. When I nodded, she poured two glasses, then followed me.

It was a clear night. A breeze blew in off the water, and I could see the lights of Riverside in the far distance. I sat down on the balustrade between two columns, gathering my dress under my knees. “How long do you think I have before they look for me?”

She squeezed into the space next to me and handed me a glass. I remembered approving this wine during our plans; shockingly expensive but delicious.

“Until at least the next break. But you _are_ enjoying the ball, aren’t you?” Artemisia sounded concerned. “Lydia told me you were perfectly charming, and absolutely everyone wanted to dance with you.” She sipped her wine like a nervous bird.

“Oh, yes, of course!” I rushed to assure her. “Everything is beautiful."  
  
“So, who did you like best? I know it’s not Robert, poor boy.”

“Honestly?” I turned my glass in my hands, tracing the fine edge and watching it catch the glow from the ballroom windows. “Armand Lindley was most gentlemanly, and so was your father, and Lord Godwin.”

“He is the most obliging of men.”

“Petrus Davenant is a good-looking twerp. Terence Monteith is a bore. Lionel Hetley can’t talk of anything except horses.” I kept going down my list of objections, punctuating it with gestures, and she began to giggle again. By the time I got to “and Robert can’t dance,” she had dissolved in laughter next to me, her head almost on my shoulder.

"I don't think I want a husband at all anymore," Artemisia said, draining her glass. “I’ve told my mother. She won’t listen.”

"I don’t think I do either," I said. “I’ll just have scandalous lovers.”

She laughed again. Her hair was a dark starry frame around her face, and her violets smelled sweet. Her arm and hip pressed warm against me through our dresses, and I thought that speaking of lovers, I would probably like kissing Artemisia after all, if she ever wanted. Then I felt horribly guilty. I couldn’t blame her in the slightest for writing the whole thing off.

“What’s that?” She slid off the balustrade, breaking contact and derailing my imaginings, pointing. “Look. Why is she running?”

A woman in red was moving quickly away from the ballroom’s open doors, through the garden. Fleeing my party?

“Maybe she needs help,” Artemisia said abruptly, starting after the woman. “Kate, we must help her.”

I was already up, head spinning slightly from the wine, following her. I couldn’t place the woman’s dress, and I didn’t know my guests well enough yet to identify most of them at a distance.

Artemisia was a white shape running like a deer in her heeled slippers. I, frustrated, kicked mine off, and then did better. Dew in the grass soaked my stockings and chilled my feet, and I hauled my skirts up to my knees as I ran, pounding down the slope of the lawn.

Despite our valiant efforts, the woman lost us in the shadows among the topiary, and we stumbled to a halt on a gravel path, striving to catch our breath, bosoms heaving like broadsheet romance heroines. I made a mental note to practice fighting in a ballgown one day soon.

“She was too fast,” I said. “I wish I knew who she was.”

Artemisia bent down to pick up something that glinted in the moonlight. “Look! This must be hers.”

I picked my way over to see, although the gravel had sharp bits. It was a bracelet, sized for a small wrist, pale metal with big stones that must have been paste to be abandoned. Distinctive, though; I hadn’t seen the design before.

“Maybe she’d want it back.” I retreated to the grass. A rock had cut my foot, and I hopped a little.

Artemisia turned it over in her hands. “What if she was … hurt?”

“I hope not,” I said, seeing the worry on her shadowed face. “But you’re right. We should find out, and help her.”

The warm spinning feeling had faded, and my bare arms were chilly as we trudged back up through the dark toward the lights of the house. When I found my shoes, I squeezed my dirty stocking feet into them and winced. At least they hid the grass stains.

Arthur Ghent and Marcus were both outside, along with two footmen, trying to appear casual about searching for me. “We took a stroll for some fresh air,” I said. “No catastrophes in my absence, I hope.”

“Lady Katherine, you can’t just run off like that!” Arthur protested.

I made an effort to channel the duke and act supercilious and masterful. “I don’t think I’ll be dancing anymore tonight. Could you find me a chair? Maybe in the card room.”

When he had gone, I called Marcus over to look at the bracelet. In the light from the ballroom, I could see the stones were red. “Would you ask around about who wore this?” I whispered. “She left early, and we don’t know her name.”

He took it from Artemisia and examined it. “Oh, smitten, are you?”

She blushed violently and shook her head, and he grinned. “I’ll try, Katie.”

“It’s not that! She might need help."

“All right.” Marcus sauntered back into the house.

Glaring at his back, I told Artemisia, “If this woman was harmed in any way in my house at my party, I promise you I will challenge for her honor.”

I meant it anyway—it was the best use for my skills I could think of—but the look in her eyes when I said it made it better.

* * *

After she returned from Tremontaine House with her parents and fell into bed in the small hours, Artemisia tossed and turned through fitful dreams of running with Katherine over an endless field as the unknown woman vanished in the distance.

“Too much rich food and excitement,” her mother opined in the morning, examining her bleary face. “That girl is not a good influence, whatever your papa says.” And so she was compelled to stay in, “resting her eyes” with compresses and tonics, for a week before they let her out.

She wrote to Katherine:

_Dearest of Friends— What news of the Mystery (you know of what I speak)? I am once more imprisoned, and pine to leave and see your face again, and hear of your discoveries._  
_— S._

The story had such romance in it, if she kept herself from thinking of Lord Ferris and feeling sick. The fleeing lady in red! The dropped bracelet! Katherine’s pledge to fight for her! Artemisia sighed to herself. She could hardly stand not knowing what the others had learned.

The footman brought a hastily folded reply with her midmorning tea:

_Come straight away when you can! Marcus has found her._  
_As ever your—T._

Their secret signatures always thrilled her a bit, although the Tremontaine seal did give it away.

When her mother proclaimed her recovered and Artemisia was released at last, she flew to the Hill as fast as the driver would take her, and breathlessly demanded the details.

“She’s an actress,” Katherine said, pulling out her chair and pouring chocolate. “A lord’s lover. Or was.”

“Rianne Rendel,” said Marcus from the other side of the table. “She has a small part in the Black Rose’s new play. Lord Bartram Cranshaw has been her protector for years, and she gave him a son, and now it seems he’s tired of her.”

“The cad,” said Katherine.

“He cast her off but kept the baby,” Marcus went on.

“How awful!” Artemisia cried, both incensed on Mistress Rendel’s behalf and relieved it wasn’t worse.

“But Marcus didn’t find out where she’s staying. So I propose that you and I should—”

“—go to the theatre,” Artemisia finished with her. “And ask questions. Of course! How exciting.”

Katherine grinned. “I hoped you’d say that.”

 _Lord Ruthven’s Lady_ was sold out that night, but they only had to mention the Tremontaine box to be escorted past the line at the Leaping Hart. Artemisia had gone home again to dress, and felt like a figure of delicious intrigue in her midnight purple cloak with its deep hood. Katherine wore her green one and a sword, just in case, she said.

As they climbed to the box, they passed a small boy with a tray of flowers and ribbons, who jumped up and tugged at Katherine’s cloak. “Flower for your lady?”

Katherine was shaking her head, but Artemisia stopped the boy and chose one, digging for a coin in her reticule. “Look, Katie. Hyacinths for constancy are perfect for you.” When Katherine turned back and let her pin them on, her hesitant smile was very pleasing.

As they took their seats together in the box behind the closed curtains, the stage footlights were just being lit. The audience cheered, the actors made their entrances, and the play surged forward.

The Black Rose was mesmerizing, playing Ruthven under a curse, transformed to a woman and suffering an unrequited passion. The playbill had listed Rianne Rendel as Ruthven’s mother, but the woman on stage in that role was not the one from the ball. “She must be an understudy,” Katherine whispered. “We’ll go ask at the interval.” She squeezed Artemisia’s hand, and Artemisia squeezed back in acknowledgment.

The first act ended on a note of high suspense that had Artemisia almost jumping out of her seat before Katherine did.

“I think I know the way down to the dressing rooms from here,” said Katherine. “Let’s go.”

There was a back staircase, and a crowd of other people outside waving flowers and playbills, and then a porter and a busy, dusty backstage hall, and finally a door with two names on it, behind which was Viola Fine touching up her face.

“If it isn’t the dashing young Duchess Tremontaine.” The actress smiled into the mirror and brushed back her cropped fair hair. She was very lovely up close. “And you’ve found a … companion your age, I see. Felicitations.”

“What? No,” blurted Katherine. “I mean, yes, but … this is Lady Artemisia Fitz-Levi.”

Artemisia stepped in beside her, pulling her skirts in, letting the dressing room door close. “Such a pleasure to meet you, Mistress Fine. You’re _terribly_ dashing yourself.”

“Oh, aren’t you a sugarplum,” said Viola, smiling again. “Well, as you like.” She turned to Katherine. “If you’re here for another kiss, Your Grace, Rose isn’t back yet. What can I do for you?”

Artemisia’s heart thudded in surprise and confusion. Katherine had _kissed the Black Rose?_ Her friend kissed actresses? How in the world? Why? Often? 

When she focused again, Viola was saying, “If you mean to challenge that bastard Cranshaw, I’d like to see it. Rianne’s off tonight but staying with me. I’ll introduce you.” She walked to the dressing table and scribbled on a piece of paper. “Come by in the morning. It’s in Riverside.”

Katherine took it. “We will.”

Viola gave Artemisia a flirtatious parting wink as she turned back to the mirror.

“It was just once,” Katherine muttered to her once they were past the crowd of people outside.

“Oh,” said Artemisia, because it seemed to demand a response. “What was it like?”

“Nice. Short. I don’t know.”

Katherine didn’t volunteer anything else on the way back up to the box, and Artemisia didn’t know if she wanted to ask.

But when the Rose made her act two entrance as Ruthven in torment, Artemisia couldn’t stop thinking about Katherine with her, and Viola assuming they were ... what, lovers? The word didn’t fit. It meant men who wrote you letters and pursued you endlessly at parties and bid for your body with flowers and presents. She didn’t want any of that anymore.

But she did like Katherine’s letters, every one, and stealing away with her at the ball, and sitting with her in this dark theatre box, and buying her flowers.

And down on stage was the Rose sighing over wanting a girl, and Viola sighing over her.

As the play went on, she kept sneaking glances at Katherine, her rapt face limned by the stage light. Had she kissed other women? Maybe so, given what people said about the goings-on at the Mad Duke’s houses. She herself had practiced with Lavinia, of course, but that was different.

However it happened, it was surely not at all like Ferris’s horrible embraces. She was everything he wasn’t. Sweet and true and honorable.

Artemisia missed most of acts two and three, caught up in heated thoughts she’d never admitted to before.

After the play, when they were tucked into the carriage seat, Katherine said, “I can go to Riverside alone if you’d—”

“No!” She found Katherine’s hand and squeezed it again. “It’s so exciting, helping you. Do let me come. I can tell my mother and father … oh, that you need a new dress, if they ask.”

Katherine assented, and in the morning Artemisia’s parents just shook their heads when the Tremontaine carriage reappeared.

Crossing into Riverside was different in the early light; it was crowded and shabby, and there were smells Artemisia had never smelled in the city before, but the people on the streets just looked ordinary, tired or busy or idle.

When they found Viola’s rooming house, Katherine told her driver to circle the area and wait for them to come out. “This isn’t far from our Riverside house,” she said as Artemisia stepped down. “I’ve walked around here before. Don’t worry, no one will try anything.”

“I’m quite all right.”

“I hope Mistress Fine keeps earlier hours than the duke’s friends.”

Viola answered Katherine’s knock awake, but draped in a heavy patterned silk dressing gown. “Lovely morning, my ladies.” She waved them in with a flourish of the sleeve. The small sitting room was filled with incongruously luxurious, mismatched things that might have been gifts from patrons. Or patronesses?

“Rianne,” she said, “it’s the Duchess Tremontaine and her friend, whom I told you about.”

Rianne Rendel was softly built with a curtain of black hair, in her early middle years, and huddled on Viola’s sofa, worn out and tearstained. She stood up and dropped a small curtsy when she saw them. “Your Grace? Can I help you in some matter?” Her expression was apprehensive, a woman fearing a new problem among many.

“No, no—we want to help _you_ ,” Katherine said, stepping forward. She felt in her pockets and brought out the bracelet. “You came to my house the other night, didn’t you?”

She sniffled and accepted it from Katherine’s hand. “Oh, yes, my lady. Thank you for finding this and taking such trouble, I’m sure.” Her gaze was still confused.

Artemisia wanted to explain. “We saw you running, you see.”

Rianne took a breath. “Ah.” She slipped the bracelet onto her wrist and turned it nervously. “Well. I had quarreled with my—Lord Cranshaw. Or I thought it was just a quarrel, but I was very upset, and I fear I have theatrical habits.”

Katherine moved to sit on the sofa beside her, and she looked grateful to sit as well. Artemisia found a chair opposite and spread her skirts over it, leaning forward to listen.

“It was one of the things he used to say he loved about me. My fire.” She gave a half-smile and fingered the red stones. “I ran, and tore this off and threw it into the dark, and afterwards regretted it, because I’ll be needing to sell it, I suppose. I can’t impose on dear Viola much longer.”

“Nonsense,” Viola said from her seat. “But the point is, darling, he threw you out.”

“Yes.” Her voice wavered again before settling into a stronger, disciplined register. “He said he was finished with me, bored, and won’t see me. We have a son, Your Grace, only a year old—Alfie—and I’ve gone to see him every day, and Bartram shut me out. Yesterday I begged him to take me back even as a servant, and he drew his sword on me.”

Outrage was bright on Katherine’s face. “I’d like to see him try it,” she muttered. She held out her hand to Rianne. “As you might have heard, I have the privilege of the sword twice over, thanks to my uncle. I’d happily challenge him for you. Does he keep a swordsman?”

“I don’t know, my lady. I don’t think so.” Rianne’s eyes filled with tears. “He’s been there every time, turning me away. All I want now is my child. I heard him crying yesterday ...”

Artemisia took a clean lacy handkerchief from her reticule and passed it to the woman, patting her hand. “If he weren’t home, could you get in?” A wild idea was taking shape in her mind.

Rianne dabbed at her eyes. “Maybe. His servants don’t love him. But he’s always there.”

“Good!” Artemisia clapped, feeling like Stella planning her escape from the city. “See, we could do both: you challenge him at the gate of Cranshaw Hall, Katherine, and when he comes out to face you, distracted, Mistress Rendel creeps in the back in disguise and spirits the child away!”

“Oh, God,” said Rianne. “Alone? If he saw me, heard anything—”

“I’ll go with you!” She was ready to be brave. “We’ll rescue your son, and when Katherine wins, he won’t be able to come after you anymore.”

Katherine protested, “Artemisia—” but looked impressed.

“It would work, wouldn’t it? I can do it. I think I’ve even been to the Hall before.”

Viola said, “If it comes to that, I’d go too. I may not know real swords, but I’m a Riverside girl.”

“It sounds like the kind of role I haven’t played in years, my lady.” Rianne smiled weakly, then sat up straighter. “I used to be good.”

Artemisia watched Katherine recognize the hope blooming in the woman’s eyes, and saw determination rise in hers.

“It might work,” Katherine said. “If his lordship is as full of himself as most of them, and can’t take a bunch of silly women as a threat. Like most of them.”

They stayed for a long midmorning tea, and left on a first-name basis with the actresses, with a plan that had fewer rough edges.

In the carriage, after a silence, Katherine said, ”You know, the duke didn’t tell me not to stand up for you. Granted, he didn’t tell me not to do many things, but I think he was actually proud of me for that. I think it was what he wanted.” She paused. “So I’m going to keep on, I think.”

“I don’t think my family would understand,” said Artemisia, raising her chin, “but they don’t understand anything.”

“If I lose, this will be a crime.”

“You won’t. You were my champion and you’ll be hers too, I know it.”

Katherine’s smile was bright, then rueful, and she ducked her head, brown curls falling out of her ribbon. “I’m pretty sure I can beat Lord Cranshaw and enjoy it. But let’s pray he doesn’t hire a really good swordsman.”

* * *

Going back home and waiting for word was excruciating over the next few days. Artemisia jumped on the post every time it arrived and sent even more letters than usual. She told her parents the duchess had invited her for the opening of her country house, which was true—she even had another formal invitation for them—and they eventually agreed to let her go a day early.

Finally, the day was set and the preparations were finished. Two carriages were drawn up at Tremontaine House, one with the Tremontaine arms, and one unmarked and driven by Viola, in men’s clothes with a hood to cover her distinctive hair. The sky was gray with choppy winds, as if an early summer storm approached.

Artemisia wore a plain dark dress and cap lent by one of the housemaids. The pins that held the rough fabric pricked her when she moved, but she felt quite disguised. Katherine, of course, was not, and looked both splendid and vulnerable in her coat and breeches. “Time to say good luck?” she asked.

In a surge of feeling, Artemisia threw her arms around her, ignoring the pinpricks. After a moment, Katherine hugged her back. “Remember, make for Highcombe once you get away, and I’ll meet you there,” she whispered. She squeezed Artemisia tightly and then went to climb into the Tremontaine carriage.

Artemisia took a deep breath, walked to the other, and got in next to Rianne, who had found herself a similar nondescript servant’s dress. “All right,” she called to Viola, and then they were off.

They followed Katherine’s carriage at a safe distance to Cranshaw Hall, another large estate on the outskirts of the city, with farmland and forest on three sides. When it stopped, Viola reined in the horses at a predetermined spot where they were hidden from the house but could see the front doors.

Artemisia climbed up on the seat and leaned out the small window to watch Katherine approach the doors and knock.

“Is he coming out?” whispered Rianne, who couldn’t see. “Do you see him?”

“Not yet … she’s speaking to a footman … yes, yes, there he is!” She reached up to rap on the roof, but Viola was already nudging the horses toward the back of the house. She pulled her head inside and made herself breathe.

“He looked confused,” she told Rianne. “Oh, she must stall him long enough before the fight!”

When they reached the rear courtyard, Viola pulled up the horses and vaulted down from the seat, holding the reins. Wind rushed through the trees behind them, and the high-strung animals tossed their heads and danced in place, sensing tension. “I’ll say it’s a delivery if anyone comes,” she said, “but hurry, you two.”

Later on, Artemisia remembered most of their time inside the house as a blur, dashing quietly down narrow back corridors and trying to keep her cap on and her head down. A girl who had been Rianne’s lady’s maid let them in the door, as arranged, and told them to go quickly; Artemisia passed her the purse they’d brought, and Rianne hugged her.

The nursery was up two splintery flights of stairs. Fortunately, Rianne knew the way and had kept up her nerve; in fact, she looked quite fiery now that the time had come. When she opened the nursery door, there was a wavering cry from the cradle, and she gasped and ran toward it. “My darling!”

Alfie’s nurse jumped up from her chair. “Oh, dearie, you’ve come for him! He missed you so.” Rianne was too busy with her son to answer.

“Are there any things he’ll need?” Artemisia asked. “Would you help me find them?”

As they stuffed clouts and nightgowns and rattles and dolls into a sack, the nurse muttered to Artemisia, “His lordship only wants the poor mite in case he can’t get another. The rages he’s flown into at her! Good riddance, I say. I won’t tell him a thing.”

“No, no, tell them we threatened you.” Rianne brought the child over, now wrapped in a trailing blanket. “Say there were men with weapons. You mustn’t take the blame, none of you here.”

“Take care of yourself, dear,” said the nurse, handing Artemisia the sack. “This is a good deed you’re doing, girl. Now go on.”

The way down was still clear—were the other servants watching the duel? _Oh, Katherine_ , she thought—and they made it to the door again without interference.

Viola was standing behind one of the horses, making soothing sounds while she attempted to check its hoof. As Rianne hurried out to the carriage with the baby, his white blanket flapped in the wind. The horse shied, squealing and kicking back at Viola, and she fell by the wheel with a cry.

“Oh, no, no, no,” Artemisia heard herself saying as she ran and stumbled to her knees on the stones beside the actress. “Oh, get up! Can you? Are you hurt?”

“Catch them,” Viola said through her teeth, clutching her arm. The horses had dragged the carriage a few yards away, both plunging and whinnying. Artemisia leaped up, dropped the sack of baby things, and seized the trailing reins. They almost pulled her off her feet at first, but she remembered Robert teaching her to drive his team in the park, and took cautious steps forward until she could stroke the nearest one’s side and talk to it, saying whatever gentle nonsense came to her, hoping no one would come. Miraculously, it seemed to work, and they quieted.

“Get the baby in,” Artemisia said over her shoulder, striving to maintain the calm tone, “and then help her up, quick.” She realized she was taking charge. Well, someone had to. She led the horses around in an arc to face the road, and then the two of them helped Viola into the carriage beside the now crying Alfie, avoiding her likely broken arm, as she cursed the equine species in shocking terms.

Finally, Artemisia clambered up to the driver’s box and urged the reins forward and said “Go” in the most authoritative voice she could, and the horses saw their chance to run and took it, breaking out of the courtyard and down the road away from the Hall as the wind gusted behind them.

She didn’t breathe easily or loosen her white-knuckle grip on the reins until they were well out of sight of the buildings and the breakneck run had slowed to a more sedate pace. She heard no one approaching from either direction, and the crying had stopped, although the winds had strengthened.

When she turned to peer through the driver’s little window, she saw Alfie sleeping in Rianne’s lap, and Viola with her arm in a sling made from a scarf, wincing each time the carriage jolted. She discovered a compartment under the seat, which yielded a supply of candles for the carriage lantern and a flask of brandy that she passed down for Viola. They also had a map of the roads to Highcombe, sketched by Katherine’s coachman; Artemisia studied it from various angles and decided she was heading the right way.

She perched there on the box, feeling like a very accomplished heroine, as they trotted through green countryside and fields of grain rippling under the ominous gray sky. The horses were behaving like perfect angels now. She would drive on through the night, keeping to the original plan, and if there was rain, it would deter any pursuers.

When they reached Highcombe and Katherine, a doctor would come and Viola could convalesce in luxury. Rianne and her son had escaped from that man. Everything was happening as planned.

By the afternoon, she’d passed the third crossroads marked on the map and rested the horses once. The views of the fields had become tedious, everyone inside was asleep, and only the buffeting wind was keeping her awake.

At the next turning, she went down the wrong fork and didn’t realize for far too long. Then, the map blew out of her hands, and she had to wake Rianne to hold the reins while she climbed through brambles to find it. Once she crawled out, scratched and tired, the other woman offered to take a turn driving, but when Artemisia tried to hold him, Alfie screamed and would not be consoled, so she took up the reins again.

By the time she found the right road, the sky had darkened and the first drops of rain were falling. While the horses drank at a stream, she wrestled with the lantern to get a candle lit, and found a dusty horse blanket inside the carriage that would be some protection.

The rain was more insistent than dramatic, creeping up slowly as the light faded, cascading off the trees, pattering and soaking through the blanket to her dress and hair. Rianne stayed awake inside with another candle, peering out at her sympathetically, holding the map and directing her at the turnings.

Through the night, she huddled under the wet blanket listening to the carriage creak, unable to see past the light of the lantern, hoping she wasn’t lost, and her thoughts of Katherine turned to worries. Artemisia imagined her wounded and shamed and taken into custody by the Court of Honor, unable to get word to anyone, or even more horribly, collapsing on bloody cobblestones after the lord called for a duel to the death.

But all she could do was keep going through what seemed like endless darkness, until, at last, it wasn’t.

The sun rose and they arrived at the gates of Highcombe in the same hour: another small miracle as Artemisia counted it. She was still crouched over the reins, her limbs cramped and stiff, her itchy stockings squishing with rainwater inside her shoes. She felt more exhausted than perhaps she had ever been in her life.

But the sky was blazoned in marvelous pink and gold, and the silhouette of a girl with a sword separated from the shadow of the house and came running toward her, banishing her night terrors, and then the exhaustion felt good and worthy.

The last of the lantern light shone on Katherine’s upturned face when she reached Artemisia. “He lost! Where’s Viola? And the baby?”

“Inside. They all are. Maybe sleeping.” Artemisia stood up, wincing. “A horse kicked her. That one. Oh, Katie, you must send for a doctor.”

Two stablemen had followed her out, and one took charge of the horses; Katherine hurried back to speak to the other, who ran for the house. She returned to Artemisia. “What about you? You look half-drowned.”

“I felt certain I would be _all_ drowned during the night.”

“Come down and let me get you into the house.” Katherine held out her hand. “Did you really drive the horses all the way? In the rain?”

She took Katherine’s hand and jumped down from the box, feet hitting the ground with a jolt. Her knees were stiff and Katherine kept her from falling with her other arm, and then they both froze there.

It struck her that they were heroes, to some degree, and Katherine was warm and sturdy and alive and holding her. She’d done so many new things on this extremely long day, what was one more?

Letting this bravery take her forward, she rose on her tiptoes and went for her lips, an awkward soft nose-bumping collision.

“Stella should have kissed Tyrian when she had a chance,” Artemisia said. “The Black Rose kissed you, but she’s not _your_ Stella.”

She heard Katherine's intake of breath, and then it tickled her face. Her heart was like a bird fluttering madly, caught where they were pressed together. She couldn't stand it a moment longer, so she tried again, and this time Katherine joined her and kissed back tentatively, and she forgot all about becoming angles and the practice she’d had.

* * *

Artemisia was sweet and impatient and excited, and I did like it very much. She was only the third person I’d kissed, but I thought I was improving.

“I didn’t know it would be like _that_.” Her cheeks were aflame, her hair a nest of tangles from the rain and wind. Her dress was still damp in back.

“I’m glad?” I felt myself grinning helplessly.

“I imagined it could be nice, but ...” She stroked my face. “Could I try again?”

I nodded, our foreheads touching.

“My very dear Katherine,” she murmured into my lips, and she was soft up against me, and I wanted to just stand there all day doing that, but I didn’t want her to catch her death of a chill or lack of sleep. Not to mention the three other people I was supposed to be tending to.

We had to let go when the men came to help Viola, anyway. I opened the carriage door and touched Rianne’s shoulder to wake her; as she climbed out with the baby, I told her beating Lord Cranshaw had been a piece of cake, which was mostly true. She cried and hugged me and kissed my forehead.

I got them all inside, and while rooms were being made up in the main house for them, Artemisia and Rianne waited in the kitchen by the ovens. The cook made rice porridge and hot honeyed milk to calm their nerves, and the kitchen maid played peek-a-boo with Alfie to make him giggle.

“I put out a dry nightgown of mine that should fit you, and had them draw you a bath,” I told Artemisia. “Maybe we can talk after.” This new understanding floated there between us, taking up all the space in my head, it felt like. I was both eager and shy to be alone with her.

She smiled at me and vanished into her room. While she was bathing, the doctor from the village arrived to see Viola. “Nasty spot for a kick,” he said, examining the ugly dark bruise that spread over her arm. “Good and broken, no doubt. Needs time and rest.” Rianne fussed over her and held her hand while she swore revenge on the horse as he set and splinted the arm.

The doctor left a soporific tea for her and recommended more brandy. I assured both women they were welcome at Highcombe for as long as they wished, and offered the cottage as a refuge from the Society guests who would be coming.

When they were settled, I went back to Artemisia’s room and hesitantly knocked.

“Katie? Come in!”

She was in bed in my plain country nightgown, dim light filtering through the curtains, working a comb through her wet hair. I sat on the edge of the bed and told her about Viola. “You should get some rest, too,” I said. “Your mother will have my head if you’re sick.”

“I want to hear about the duel.” She set down the comb and pulled up the covers. “I couldn’t help picturing such awful things. Are you really all right?”

“Perfectly,” I said. “He didn’t believe I was serious at first, and then he didn’t believe he could lose.” Lord Cranshaw had patronized and blustered at me and told me to leave men’s business to the men, and then accepted the challenge to “teach me a lesson.” “But he didn’t have a sword on retainer, and it must have been years since he used his for anything but threatening ladies. I gave him a nasty mark down his arm so that maybe he’ll remember what he agreed to.” The blade had slit his coat sleeve to the shoulder and drawn blood all the way. “He was humiliated, but alive, so the Court of Honor might not bother me this time.” I paused. “I don’t know about next time.”

“Next time, I want to be there at your side, dearest.” Artemisia reached out and touched my fingers.

I blushed, and turned my hand over to catch hers. “I’d like that, if it’s safe.”

She said sleepily, “I wish I could stay at Tremontaine House always, or here.”

“I'd like that too,” I said. (Eventually she did come to stay, of course, but that’s another story.)

Then I kissed her again because I thought she might want to, and it turned out she did, for quite a while. 


End file.
